Murder Wives
by JupiterDelphinus
Summary: There is something inherently surprising about Margot Verger, and Alana finds herself hating it.
1. Surprising

There is something inherently surprising about Margot Verger, and Alana finds herself hating it. By all accounts and subtle hints, Margot Verger should not, in fact, exist at all. Not in that silly, permanent way that death tends to snuff people not only from life, but from memory, but in the way this walking, talking, seducing woman should be a shell of a person. An idea of a shell, even. Alana finds herself unwittingly watching her, because in this mass of puzzles and labyrinths she surrounds herself with, those people that are long and complicated and far too impossible, Margot Verger is a typical picture-book walking around among Chaucer and Alighieri and Goethe. But it's more than that. Not only is she a kitten running amuck with lions, she's keeping pace. Not in the way that Mason or Will keep pace; in the way that she is beaten, and beaten, and beaten, and still seems to walk amongst demons as though they are ordinary men. Alana hates it; hates how much time she spends watching and studying Margot Verger as though she is learning to read people for the first time.

Margot Verger is far too simple for Alana's tastes, which thrive on the complex, and salvageable. Margot Verger is neither of those things. She is, in fact, beyond broken, yet still human. Years of Mason's tortures, not quite known but ethereal enough to have weight, and weeks of Hannibal's influence have left her cracked and scarred and fraying around the edges like a neglected masterpiece. There is nothing salvageable about what Margot once was or could have been, but the seedy little idea that perhaps a new Margot could emerge through this whole ordeal is all too appealing to who Alana has found herself becoming. They could, perhaps, change together. Grow together. And that niggling little voice in the back of Alana's head that makes her thoughts turn black as that ink in her last dream whispers to her: perhaps they could kill together.

Alana is not one to deny the cyclical idea of it all. Rebirth through death. The starting of a new life at the end of another, and it seems all too realistic with the way her life has gone that if indeed she wishes to start anew she must pay sacrifice to that Red God that invaded her life and filled it with blood. The only person Margot wants dead, wants to kill, is Mason. The only person that could convince her to do it is Hannibal. Alana knows that for all her experience and knowledge, she could never twist a person's mind to commit an unreasonable act; even though the killing of Mason by Margot is perhaps the most reasonable idea in her life at the moment. More reasonable than the idea that Mason can hunt, capture, and eat Hannibal. More reasonable than the idea that perhaps she could save Will Graham by reaching Hannibal first. More reasonable than the idea that Margot could want her.

But Margot does. Margot- simple, sweet, seductive Margot- makes her desires well known in that charming and alluring way that men have never seemed to master. In fact, she woos Alana the way Alana didn't even know she wanted to be wooed, and Alana for her part finds herself loving it, and hating that she loves it. It's so simple, Margot's desire of her. As plain as day and unencumbered by deceptions and manipulations that Alana doesn't quite know how to respond. And that deep, angry, black thing that has settled and made a home permanently in her chest keens at the idea of possessing Margot. Having a hold on something so frayed and beautiful and simple. At making Margot's pleasure hurt.

It is with that ink black and twisting thought that Alana corners Margot one evening after a slow and boring tennis match with Mason. It is with that thought that Alana, with whatever strength her crooked body can muster, presses Margot to a wall and bites her neck; the resulting gasp echoing down the hall and down, down to that heavy mass in Alana and the mass swallows it like it's being fed after years of starvation. Alana pulls away, admiring that heavy and immediate bruise, the near-perfect indentation of her teeth of pale and shattered skin. Then Margot swipes one long finger under her chin and with no more than a look, leads her quickly through the halls of the Verger mansion to her room.

When the door shuts with an underwhelming click behind Alana, Margot, in that deep, raspy, voice that Alana had thought incidental and not purposeful, says, "Hello." It is in that moment Alana realizes that perhaps Margot is not as simple as she once thought. And the look in Margot eyes tells Alana that she has been playing a different game than the rest of them this whole time. Playing a different game and winning; because here Alana is, standing expectant and eager in her bedroom and Alana is struck with the notion that this is exactly where 'sweet', 'simple', broken Margot Verger had wanted her all along. At her mercy, a whim to her desires, admired and revered. Alana hates it, and it is with hate that she bares herself to Margot who watches, fully clothed, as her reward for winning is given to her.

But it is not at all one-sided, like Alana's affair with Hannibal had been; like Will Graham's quiet devotion had been. Because Alana had been too proud to lower her head in abashed defeat. And she sees there, swimming in Margot's eyes, desire, admiration, and reverence. Alana, again, is surprised by Margot Verger, because the woman had put them on equal footing without Alana even realizing it was happening. The thought of Margot being a kitten playing around with lions comes to mind once more, and Alana remembers how male lions do nothing but babysit their cubs and eat the prime meat. Margot has taken advantage of her position, kept her emotions, while frayed and prone to abuses, open to attack, but human nonetheless. Alana gasps when Margot takes off her suit jacket and nothing is on underneath. And the slow, quiet way that Margot takes off her pants, again with nothing but her skin and scars to show for it, is like watching a goddess bestow herself on a mortal.

Alana hates that she thinks of scarred and broken Margot as a goddess. She finds herself unwilling to complain, however, when Margot leads her to bed and shows her just how much of a goddess she could be. The inky black thing in Alana recoils at first-this was not how this was supposed to go. She was supposed to dominate, to hurt Margot for being so simple and clear and stupid. Yet she finds herself a willing slave Margot's desires, her body betraying the deep anger and poisonous thoughts to the soft and sure pleasure of Margot's experience. Those long thin fingers trace patterns on her back, connecting a thousand little dots of scars in a pattern that drives Alana crazy. It's slow, but not arduous, and Alana gets the impression again that Margot knew exactly what she was doing.

She loves Alana nothing at all like Hannibal, who had been strong and purposeful and almost mechanic. Margot seems to flow and ebb like a tide of pleasure pushing and pulling Alana's mind into whatever soft and flimsy thing she wanted it to become. Her hands are gentler than a man's, her lips fuller and eager to kiss each and every part of her, her skin smoother, and her tongue far more willing to take time and taste. Alana arches as best she can the first time she feels that tongue lick her chest, the lips she has stared at for the past weeks encasing her and sucking hard, making sure to get the taste of skin in Margot's mouth. Alana realizes they haven't kissed, and as Margot paints saliva down her stomach, Alana finds she doesn't care at the moment.

Margot kisses and licks the hip that is broken and twisted beneath surgery-scarred skin and it aches in a way Alana had not been prepared for. She hates it, and promptly forgets her hate as Margot licks a soft pattern where she had wanted it most. Margot is no novice, perhaps the best Alana has had, and while her mind can still form thought, Alana thinks that this will most definitely have to happen again, next time on her own terms. Her hands find their own way into Margot's hair, and Margot's hands find heavy, almost bruising purchase on Alana's thighs. Margot pleasures with verve, reveling in the act as though she herself gained pleasure from the way Alana gasped and groaned quietly, and the way the fingers in her hair pulled and pulled until her scalp surely ached.

Alana finishes suddenly, and she is surprised about how quickly it passed. She hates it, and she hates it more when she feels two slim fingers slip inside her and the ghost of a smile against her stomach, because Margot is far from done and Alana hadn't been expecting that. Her hands move from that tousled hair to muscled shoulders now parallel with her own, and the movement of Margot arm-so steady and so, so good- makes the same muscles she grips flex and tense and it's unequivocally attractive. Margot's eyes are dark, and mischievous when looked upon, and Alana can't look away. The pleasure now is practically overwhelming and yes, Margot is the best she's had; having her in ways that her body had heretofore been a stranger to. It's silly, really, because it's nothing new at all. Alana had been eaten out, had been fingered, but there is something undefinable in the way Margot seems to do it that has Alana turning to something less than human; something base and animal. Instead of screaming she bites Margot's neck, the same place she had bitten the first time, and she hears Margot accompanying chuckle as though the pain it must cause is amusing.

Alana catches her breath after her orgasm passes, and Margot licks her fingers, smug as anything and seductive as ever. No words are exchanged, and indeed none have been since that initial hello, but Alana knows exactly what Margot wants, and willingly accepts her role when Margot places her knees on either side of Alana's head. The black twisting thing in her chest is so far away now, she almost feels like old Alana again. Almost. And while she may be inexperienced, Margot guides her head easily, and controls her pacing and location without a word until Alana knows exactly what Margot wants. After that happens, Alana is given free rein to look up to the pleasure etching itself across Margot's face, the scars on her stomach twisting and shining, paler than the rest of her, and the heavy thing rears its head for just a moment and Alana bites, and Margot face screws up in hurt as she comes.

Again, Alana feels like that was exactly what Margot wanted, and she's can't keep track of how much she's losing the game she didn't know she was playing. Margot hums, contented, and lays next to Alana for just a moment before deciding to have her again. Its rougher this time, more dominating, and it's the smugness of her championing of Alana that drives it. Alana finds her eyes closing, her body rolling as best it can, taking two then three fingers in a strong pace that will not leave a single bruise but will leave her with the memory of how it feels for a long time. She hears Margot chuckle again, and her nails, blunt though they are, break the skin of Margot's shoulders as she comes for the third time. The thought that she has probably scarred Margot registers for just a moment. Scarred her like Mason. But when Alana opens her eyes and unclenches her fingers, Margot is simply smiling at her, as though a new batch of scars from Alana might not be so bad. As if she had wanted them all along.

The fingers slip out of her and Margot rolls away. Alana half-expects her to grab a cigarette out of the bedside table and start smoking, that's how much of a stallion Margot seems at the moment. Margot has surprised her, playing a game totally different from the ones she was used to. Playing innocent, ruined, victimized Margot, and winning Alana's body that Alana didn't know had been a prize to be won until it was lost. But Margot doesn't feel like a loss. In fact, she feels an awful lot like a gain; one Alana would like to make permanent amidst all of this madness and murder. She wonders what thoughts are going through Margot's head while she's being stared at. Wonders if Margot is having feelings of possible permanence. But Margot just looks up at her ceiling, smiling at the victory, at the pleasure of it all, and Alana remembers they haven't kissed yet.

She hates it.


	2. Absolution

The death of Mason Verger doesn't feel like a sacrifice at all; in fact it feels an awful lot like absolution. And kneeling on the floor, his dead body haphazardly sprawled between them, Margot Verger, drenched in water, looks like the absolution Alana was looking for. Alana thought it would be bloody, that that heavy thing would rear its head and see Margot drenched in red and feed off of the wickedness, the ugliness, the red. But Margot is not drenched in blood, she is drenched in water, and the clear, clean image of her makes Alana think that maybe there never needed to be blood, that maybe not even murder could stain Margot Verger.

It makes sense, Alana thinks, breathing heavy and staring at Margot, that the death of Mason would wash Margot clean of all things that were the past. She did not think, however, that the washing would be in water. But as she sits there, staring at Alana, at the thing they've done together, Margot doesn't look like the demons Alana is so familiar with. She looks like an angel. An angel of death and she is so, so beautiful and tragic and broken but now, with Mason dead, she looks more whole than Alana has ever seen her.

Alana long ago gave up the hatred that came with losing Margot's game. Instead, she took up a new game with Margot, and the two of them now knelt, the evidence of winning, their spoils, dead at their knees and safely tucked away in a vial in a pocket of Alana's coat. Margot's laugh after the initial shock is infectious, as her moods always tend to be, and Alana laughs with her. Again, they are on equal footing. Alana would never say she loves Margot, but she does have a genuine sense of affection. And she knows she'll have to come to terms with carrying Mason's baby, but she doesn't really think of it that way. She thinks of it as her reward. She lost to Margot, but they, together, won against Mason, and the baby that will result will be a Verger baby. Margot's Verger baby and it will bind the two of them together. Bound, not in love, but by winning a game when they two have lost so many alone. Alana thinks perhaps she could have never won alone, but Margot makes a very good team player.

Alana doesn't think about Hannibal, or Will, or Abigail, or how everything she seems to be going through with Margot almost directly parallels that in some sick, twisted way that perhaps Hannibal had seen coming all along. Nor does she think about how she knows Hannibal and Will love each other, in their own way; that is a parallel she will never think of. No; instead she kisses Margot, soaking wet and adrenaline pumping from finally killing Mason and the water on her lips tastes like an antidote to that sick poisonous thing in Alana's chest. But the sick thing still kisses her over a dead body, and Margot is kissing back, smiling, grasping at Alana like she is finally free to have her the way she wants, as though she had been bound by invisible chains, cuffed and collared like a dog, like one of Mason's pigs, and perhaps she had been. Alana never thought too hard about Margot's mental state beyond that of a broken, wounded woman. She seemed easy, not too complicated, but not boring as she first had thought. The extent of her binding had escaped Alana until this moment, with Margot grasping at her like she had come up for air for the first time in years, for the first time in her life.

She is seeing Margot for the first time and quite likes the view. Margot is fierce, and harsh around the edges, not at all that soft thing she had been when first presented to Alana. Murder suits her. The murder of Mason suits her most of all, and as Alana pulls away because they have to leave, as much as her ink black thing would like to have Margot in this water next to Mason's body, Margot looks at her like she knows exactly what every black thought in Alana's mind has been this whole time, and forgives them. Or, maybe not forgives, as forgiveness implies a certain quality of wrongness, but accepts them, and sees nothing wrong with them at all. Her cheeks are pink flushed and her hair is a mess, the water and her clothes cling to her and Alana wants her violently, and Margot knows, simply pulling her to her feet to find someplace else, someplace better.

Alana thinks perhaps that's exactly where the two of them are headed- someplace better. Because Margot knows; and if she hadn't, if she had been that naïve simple picture book girl Alana first thought of her, it would crumble to ash and dust and dissolve in the water they are drenched in. Margot, quietly and without warranting, without Alana even realizing, knows the woman she finds in her bed. She knows Alana, and as they drive away from the Verger estate- two 'very lucky survivors' of Hannibal's rampage- it is then that Alana realizes that Margot knows her. She hadn't made herself available, or easy to read. She hadn't been open or honest or caring but for some reason, Margot can read her like she is the picture book, and Margot is the Alighieri. She loves feeling so simply, so understood, and she hopes one day to understand Margot the same way.

She thinks, perhaps, the baby will help. It will open Margot up, the one thing she has truly wanted. She has wanted Alana, continues to want Alana, but there is something in that child-to-be that Alana will never make up for. Margot is a mother at heart, determined and destined to do right where generations upon generations of Vergers have done wrong. The determination and fierceness with which she wants a child is not narrowed down to the money. Alana realizes she wants to start over, to do it right, to love right, to care right, to come back from all this devastation and be better. She wants what Mason stole from her with what she herself has stolen from him. Alana thinks it's just divine.

Margot drives them to a very posh hotel where she doesn't have to ask for a room key for the clerk at the front desk to give it to her, nor do they question why the two of them are wet. Alana wonders how many women she's taken here, and wonders how many women have seen Margot's bed back at the estate. Something tells her she's the only one who has seen Margot in her natural habitat, and she feels her chest swell with something like pride and something like smugness and something wicked, and she has to remind herself that she would never say she loves Margot. The elevator goes up and up and Alana likes it, because that's the way that she and Margot are headed. Alana will bear a Verger heir, and the three of them, a twisted, perfect little family unit, will be swimming in money and affection. Not love, not for Margot, perhaps never, but affection, and the two of them will love the child and that will be enough.

The suite is huge, with a view that extends for eternity as if Alana and Margot were Gods, looking out over their pitiful human realm and for this moment, Alana feels like they are. They have won, Hannibal is gone, Mason is gone, Will is safe on a promise that won't be broken, and they will have a baby. Alana stares out the window, and can feel Margot staring at her back. Margot, in that deep, intentional voice says, "Remind me again, how babies are made," and Alana smiles because it's a bad line, but the only line that seems appropriate.

She takes the vial out of her pocket and sets it on the nightstand, determined that their victory be in plain view when she has Margot. The clothes on her back come off with difficulty, and water clings to her skin as she approaches Margot, who still stands by the door. She begins to lick the droplets off like she is dying of thirst, and maybe she has been, in her own way. She kneels for Alana, who grabs her hair and enjoys the view as Margot makes sure every last drop of water on her legs is replaced with the warmth of her tongue. She doesn't look at Alana when she tastes her, her arms squaring themselves on Alana's lower back and Alana thinks that her knees must be bruising as she gets her pleasure. Alana thinks Margot is very much aware how her pleasure at Margot's pain is so immensely satisfying to who she is now, and as beautiful Margot makes sure she gets exactly what she wants, the thoughts flee her for that pleasure, and that dark satisfaction.

She comes loudly for the first time, and curls over Margot's head, tip-toed and one hand on the door to keep herself standing. After Alana recovers, Margot lets her rip her clothes off as much as she can. They'll be ruined, but they were anyway because of the water, and Alana feels strong for the first time in a long time, and possessive of Margot as she always had. Margot lets Alana take her against the door, which is new. In fact, Margot on her knees while Alana stands was new too. They've always been in a bed, and Alana finds it indicative of their new-found freedom. It isn't rough, though, as Alana had thought she'd be. With Margot bare in front of her, murder on her hands and Alana on her lips, she finds herself being soft, gentle, and passionate. She does not, however, love Margot. She doesn't know if she can, anymore, but when Margot closes her eyes and grips the back of Alana's neck in ecstasy, she wonders why not.

They finally lay on the bed, but they don't touch, not yet that will come later. For now they look at each other and Alana again thinks of permanence. She often thinks of Margot and permanence now, not so fleeting as the thought once had been. Her and Margot and the baby. Permanence. She wonders what Margot thinks of as the sun sets bright and heavy, flooding the room in red. Alana thinks Margot looks much better with the clear water soaking her skin than with the red sun bleeding on her. She reminds herself to have Margot in the shower, in the Jacuzzi tub that came with the room, on the lounger, on the kitchen counter, against the wall made entirely of windows, everywhere that had seemed so closed off to her before now spreading wide open like the sky splitting for them to walk through the universe together. They are free, they have freed themselves and the future is looking quite rich.

But Alana reminds herself again, she would not say she loves Margot Verger.


	3. Decimation

Alana's conversation with Will had left her reeling in a past, in a present, in a state of being she thought she had long put away to that little glass box Hannibal Lecter resides in. Will Graham has reentered her life, and while Hannibal is a necessary evil, a necessary joy, Will Graham brings far too much trouble into her institute, into her life, to be considered necessary at all. Still, she finds his morbid and self-destructive tendency to gravitate towards Hannibal sickeningly fascinating. A lamb, leading others to slaughter before he himself lost his sight, then his life, screaming in the dark at the hand that both feeds and kills. He will bring his own decimation upon himself and blame Hannibal.

But then, he is too unaware of himself to realize his own folly. When Hannibal himself warned to stay away, he came running like a little dog to his master. Maybe that's what Hannibal is to all of them, in his way. And yet he sits in a cage, caught and quantified by the woman he has promised to kill, and he is so fond of keeping his promises. Alana thinks of her family, of her son, of her Margot, and wonders exactly how permanent permanent can be when Hannibal Lecter is involved.

The advent of Will Graham in her life years later leaves that inky black tendril in her chest, a gift from her pet downstairs, spiraling up and up and twisting in her veins like watercolors left to leak on canvas. She had reserved that thing, that sick heavy thing, for her interactions with Hannibal, and perhaps the odd interaction with Chilton, but now it seeps down her forearms like blood and she can practically see it. It's infectious when these wires cross, when the filing cabinets in her mind open and the pages fall all over the place.

He brings the Red God with him wherever he goes, Will Graham, and Alana can tell he is once again starting to feel the weight of all of that blood their God demands. Alana has given it blood, the blood of a birth, the best kind of blood. Blood of life. Will Graham's presence in her life means it may demand more of her, and there is no blood she's willing to lose now.

Alana is no fool, she knows Margot could live without her with their child. She knows Margot might even thrive, but she likes to think they have a certain rapport that makes Alana a pleasant constant, rather than a begrudged burden. Shared custody aside, Alana bore the child, and in the event of a split, of the Verger fortune, and the fortune she has amassed for herself, not a dime would Margot see. And still, they've reached a certain kind of agreement. A family unit, with love passed freely mothers-to-son and, on occasion, unspoken, from mother to mother.

Three years later and Alana still hasn't said she loves Margot. Three years later and Alana still isn't sure she can love a person like that ever again. It has become their unspoken new game, not saying it, and Alana is fine with that. She gets the sense Margot does love her, in whatever capacity Margot's broken-but-mending heart can love, but Margot will never say it first. Margot has lived and learned past such vulnerabilities, though she holds no such qualms with their son, loving him freely, openly, devotedly, with such a beauty Alana often marvels at her.

Alana boasts of him to Will. She basks in his discomfort, both at the mention of her family, but in the clear mention of Margot, who Alana knows once used his sperm as a possible escape route. She thinks perhaps he still feels violated in some way. She thinks Margot, absolute Sapphic Margot, all the more appealing because of it. Will Graham is uncomfortable with Margot, and the creature within Alana loves it. Wishes she could swim it. She finds herself proud of her lover. Hannibal Lecter himself cannot make Will Graham uncomfortable, broken and confused yes, but not uncomfortable. Margot Verger managed it in the simple act of sex. Alana finds it poetic. Of all the murder, the lies, the deceptions, it's the sex that makes Will uncomfortable. The sex he never had with Hannibal, in their sick twisted little love affair. She chuckles as he leaves, before paying a visit to her prized possession.

Alana knows Hannibal can see the darkness seeping out of her. She has him caged, can disgrace him, leave him undignified and wallowing in his own filth if she so chooses, and he knows he bred that ability in her. This is what the inky black in her chest is usually saved for, usually reserved for, but Will Graham has it leaking all over the place and it causes her to be the thing Hannibal hates the most- rude. She leaves thinking about how temporary she is.

Margot greets her with that cold kind of warmth that comes with being together and killing together. Alana supposes it's an indescribable thing, and their son is already to bed for the night. There is something in Margot's eyes that tells Alana that she knows, can see the tendrils of dark, of past, of present, of always, swirling on the surface of her skin. Margot never shies away from the monster in her, too familiar with demons to be afraid of monsters.

"You saw Will Graham today," she says, and Alana doesn't quite know how she knows. Perhaps there is a look in her eye, a demeanor she is unaware of that says the Reaper of the Red God has returned to their lives, but Margot knows he has returned. Alana is darker at home than she has been in a very long time. She grips Margot's wrist fiercely, with the intensity of a predator, and Margot smiles, knowingly. Alana sometimes tires of being known, but then tires again at the thought of being unknown.

She drags Margot to the bedroom. Margot lets her.

The bed is plush, oversized, a perfect signifier of their overabundant affluence. Alana releases Margot into the middle of the room harshly, fingers leaving soft bruises on the forearm she had gripped, but Margot doesn't even bat an eyelash. After so much pain, so much humiliation, a few gentle bruises mean nothing but a promise of what's to come; and what's to come in this case is quite pleasurable. Margot adapted to pain, and now her pleasure can't come without it. Alana would think it sick, after all Margot's been through, if Alana now didn't have the need to inflict pain to gain pleasure herself. Never severe, never permanent, but it has to be there in some way.

On an ordinary day, those soft bruises would suffice, bruises that would fade before the night was out; but not today, and Margot knows this because she is stripping down to nothing while Alana stands in power, clothed and postured as a king viewing his whore. Margot's body is seductive, even after the years have gone, and her skin beckons pain like an unused canvas screams for paint, and Margot is a masterpiece, blemished by Alana's passions or otherwise.

Alana stalks towards her then, the call of her radiance too much to resist, and she runs her blunted nails gently, teasingly down the expanse of Margot's back. Margot looks back over her shoulder, then, as if to ask whether or not Alana would get on with it, so she does. Alana grips Margot to her roughly, one hand finding bruising purchase on her chest, the other canting her hips back, forcing the woman to a half bend. Her shoulder now in biting range, Alana bites it, the same spot as always, as ever, and under the feint scar of her teeth there, a new bruise forms. Margot lets out a heavy breath as Alana bites harder. She has only broken the skin once before, when Hannibal had become her collector's piece, but she thinks perhaps tonight may mark the second time.

She wonders how Margot would handle it. The first time, she had simply disinfected it, and told Alana in her post-orgasmic haze only to do that during special occasions. Alana wonders if this is special enough, because the thing in her chest craves blood. She releases before the skin under her lips breaks, and turns Margot around. She is breathing heavily, and levels Alana with a look of grim, expectant understanding. The same way Alana needs this to hurt her, Margot needs it to hurt her too, and Alana remembers the Red God has not just come for her, but for Margot as well.

The bed seems such an odd softness to the rough, cragged thing they will do in it tonight. Alana kisses Margot, the tang of blood finding its way all the way down to her stomach as Margot's lip splits under her teeth. Alana wonders how Margot explains these things, how Margot handles the pain, how Margot handles her, but the ink black thing is greedy for more after being neutered for so long. Margot gasps as Alana once again palms her chest, evidence of her arousal pressing hard against Alana's hand, and her body cants hopelessly against the clothed one above her.

Alana's other hand slides down to the wetness she knows she'll find, the wetness she always finds, and tongues the bruise on Margot's shoulder. She can feel the raspy, haggard breaths of her lover, and Alana wonders what kind of broken thing Margot has residing in her chest. She licks the bruise again, and feels Margot's tiny nod against her head. It is an unspoken agreement, and there is something sad in the fact that Alana's knows she will never hurt Margot enough for Margot to ask her to stop, because Margot has been hurt far worse than anything Alana- old or new or now or always- could do to her.

Alana bites as she enters Margot, and Margot doesn't even scream as blood leaks onto their thousand dollar sheets. Alana swears the blood tastes orgasmic, tastes like Margot's rolling hips against her hand, tastes like the adrenaline coursing through her veins and the pleasure peaking so fast as the endorphins rush madly to her brain. It is always fast when blood has been drawn, the pain of it, the sacrifice of it spurring on wildly, wildly to a rarely-reached peak that begs penance of the past and devotions for the future. It's a dangerous kind of passion, but Margot is sweating, and rolling blindly under her and Alana curls her fingers to find just that right spot and licks at the blood gathering in the crevice of Margot's collarbone and Margot's body seizes and it is visionary.

She withdraws her fingers slowly, flicks her tongue once more against the blood, and looks at Margot, the orgasm still running rampant behind her fluttering eyelids. As her vision clears, Alana wonders how Margot sees her in that moment; fingers glistening with cum, lips glistening with blood, fully clothed. Margot's hands, though, are more sure in their movements than Alana's thoughts, and the two of them never break eye contact as those wicked hands undo Alana's pants and slip them just off of Alana, just enough to grant access. Alana silently commends Margot's knowledge of her, again; nudity is not something Alana would succumb to tonight, not tonight. Margot makes quick work of Alana, peaking her with all of the well-practiced movements of a long-time lover. Alana isn't ashamed of her finish; it's quick but her tongue still tastes of iron and her teeth can still feel the flesh of another and she was close the moment the skin broke.

She lays down, then, and her minds blanks for a moment as Margot licks her own blood off of Alana's lips. As she caresses hotly over Alana's still-clothed form, Alana wonders how often Margot has had the taste of her own blood in her mouth, wonders if Margot's monster would enjoy the taste of another's, but that is a conversation for another time as Margot pulls her pants just a bit farther down, then settles under and between Alana's legs, peppering small kisses up her inner thighs. Quietly, somewhere where the old Alana lives, she wonders if those small gestures are what love feels like. It ceases to matter when Margot's tongue, Margot's tongue that has her own blood on it, licks a devious path to where Alana most likes it. Alana thinks the split in Margot's split lip must sting at the very least, and ache blindingly at the worst. She likes to think it's the worst.

Margot pleasures her hungrily, and Alana still doesn't know why it seems as though simple submissions seem to turn Margot on so much. Perhaps because it isn't submission at all. Perhaps because it is Margot giving, and she knows she wouldn't have to if she didn't want to. Alana thinks Margot is still drunk on the power of killing Mason, even all this time later. But Margot is perhaps too enthusiastic for how Alana feels tonight, and she digs her heels into Margot's back, coming again at the thought of the heavy and sharp bruise she knows will be there. The pleasure is blinding, and the oil stains of Will Graham's visit fall away as her body relaxes into it. Alana idly hears Margot in the bathroom; she's no doubt cleaning her shoulder.

When Margot returns, she undresses Alana with a care that Alana feels unworthy of after the actions of the evening. She slips Alana under the covers, then slips under herself. Margot holds her, knowing she needs to be held, knowing that somewhere, Alana misses herself, and this new and old and ever version of her requires a certain touch, a certain care. Alana marvels is Margot's knowledge of her, and as those strong arms wrap themselves around her and she begins to drift off to sleep, she thinks old Alana would have said it was love, indeed. Tonight, now, this is permanent for Alana.

She wonders for how long.


	4. Foolish

Will Graham is no longer playing, and there's something in Alana that watches with an almost delirious pleasure as Hannibal, again, makes Will fall apart at the seams. There is no doubt in Alana's mind at all that it is Hannibal's hand, and Hannibal's will, and Hannibal's Will. The Great Red Dragon is not one to be trifled with, but Hannibal is so very good at trifling, and the Red Dragon, an agent of their Red God, doesn't know he's being manipulated. He is foolish, and doesn't know Jack Crawford, Will Graham, and Hannibal Lecter are all manipulating him like a child. Alana thinks of her child, and how easy it is to manipulate him into doing things. She thinks on the times when a simple suggestion of goodness creates a malleable and hard-working toddler, cleaning up his own messes. She wonders, of the men, who will clean this one.

She thinks of the Red Dragon as that child. Hannibal and Will as his parents. So easy to get him to do what they wish, and Alana knew the second the trash rag on the Dragon came out that Frederick Chilton would not see the other end of it well at all. Hence her prudence in declining their oh-so-generous offer for her voice to be the second in that bit of fiction. No. Chilton is fool enough indeed to risk life, limb, and lip for a bigger bite of fame, a shinier spot light, but Alana had a family to think about, after all. Honestly, a hand on the shoulder. She wonders how Chilton became a successful psychiatrist in the first place. Such a simple manipulation, monkeys could do it.

But Will, oh Will pulls it off masterfully and he is soon shedding that lambskin to show what he is Becoming, such as Alana has, as Jack has, as the Dragon also is. Hannibal is pulling strong strings of parallelism, twisting realities and persons into worse and worse beings and he eats it up. She supposes, having Hannibal tied and wrapped up like a turkey, that she should be less affronted about his rather tactless remark on their prior engagement. Alana doesn't like to be reminded she was, at one point, a pawn on his chess board. She likes to think now she's upgraded to bishop at the least. His person suit is gone, his mirth is evident, and the tangle she's found herself in merely by housing him, in his luxury and finery, begets more and more blood. She removes herself where she can, but the facts of the matter require more concentration than a simple refusal.

They need Hannibal. Will needs Hannibal. But Will is quickly losing his dependency, she notices, and becoming his own little demon. Hannibal does have agency. He has it in Will Graham, and Alana wonders if Will found the same amount of satisfaction in his work as the Dragon did; after all, it was a shared crime, whether the Dragon knows it was or not. And Will, poor, idiotic, self-destructive and manipulated Will, Alana can tell he is seeing and seeing more, and soon, again, there will be no distinctions to be made. He is waking up to the victimization of himself, to his pitiful situation, the situation he has put himself in once again. Foolish, that's what he is. Foolish.

She gleans satisfaction from his tortured little face. Watching the murder he committed on a movie screen like a twisted snuff film. She wonders if the agony written there hides a deeper, orgasmic feeling. That tends to happen when you reap what you sow, and he has been sowing death. Reaper of the Red God indeed. He will never learn, and even if his family survives, Alana wonders how much of him will be left to return. Will he be missing his lips; his arm; his mind? So many little, fun choices for Hannibal to pick from. She smells blood in the air. Delivering Hannibal's snack has afforded her twisted sensibilities an odd sense of hunger. A violent thing. But she no longer has an outlet in Hannibal. She has done all she can legally do, even refusing him his privacies.

This game that they all play, there is a price. She knew, when Will walked back into her life, there would be a price. She didn't know it would be this- this sick twisted hunger steeped in blood and blackness and Alana thinks if she had it in her she would cry. She would cry great, heaving sobs that would wretch out of her like a monster was trying to free itself from her body. This awful thing, this horrible thing, this bloody thing. She thought she'd kept it locked away. Locked away so well in a glass case and now she felt foolish. Margot had warned her. Told her. Alana wants to punish her for seeing ahead, for tasting the game and the blood without ever being on contact with it because Margot knew. She knew and she knew and she keeps knowing where others, where Alana, don't.

Perhaps it is that outsider perspective, having known these men only for a short while; but having known a demon for all her life. Alana hates it. Hates how Margot makes her feel like a fool, like a genius, like a good person, like a bad person, like a person at all. Alana wants to be more than man. She wants to be a demon, a monster with her monsters. On par with Will. But she isn't, she can't be, doesn't want to be, not really. The ink wants to take her, but she wants to remain as clean as she can and it's war in her. War, like Margot had said it would be. Her mind, like Margot had said it would cost her. Did she feel as Will did upon seeing such violence? Was it pleasure that coursed through her veins? Or disgust? She doesn't know. She thinks maybe Will doesn't either, and she is so far removed in comparison. Is she really happy to never have to deal with Chilton again? The agony she saw on Will, she knows she reveled in it. She knows she wouldn't have before all this mess. The joy of Will's loss of innocence would have been horror, before all this mess. The security of home would have been strong and caring, not reeking of fear, before all this mess.

She is a mess when she gets home. She hasn't seen Chilton. She doesn't know if she can go back, if she wants to go back just to be torn to shreds again. She didn't realize sooner. She should have. Margot finds her at the door, and Alana wonders what she sees. Alana wonders if those tears did come after all, because Margot looks at her with something akin to pity. It's a sadness, running and digging so deeply into Margot's face that Alana knows she's crying now, because the look on Margot's face is gut-wrenching. It rips the tears from her because Alana is not who she was before, and not who she was when they met, and not who she had built herself to be in the three years with Margot. She is someone else at the hand of all of this and Margot, sweet, seductive Margot, is the one who is paying the Red God's price.

She knows Margot sees the guilt, the confession on her face, the apology that will never pass her lips. Margot knows her too well, but how can she when Alana is lost. Lost, lost. Drifting, drowning in this sea of blood and manipulations. Jack, Will, Hannibal, and the Dragon are taking her piece by piece. She falls, and her knees bruise at the entryway. Margot stands over her, and Alana thinks maybe Margot's resident, the one that feeds on pain, likes the idea of Alana in pain while Margot stands in power. But Alana looks up and all she sees is pain. Margot keels, graceful, ethereal, next to her, and Alana's tears hit the marble and glow like stars.

"Let me fix it," Margot says. And for some reason, Alana feels in this moment, with her tears like meteors and Margot like a nebula, that Margot can.

She starts slowly, with almost nonexistent touches. Unreal. Kissing and whispering away tears and stains of black mascara like the ink spilling out of Alana's very eyes. She unbuttons the suit, the one that didn't make Alana feel very powerful today, and paints fingertips across each new bit of exposed skin. Her collarbones become touched; Margot is more than man. Alana wonders if, by her relationship, she is more too. Wonders, as Margot touches her like a work of fine art, if she ever needed more than Margot to be Greater. Perhaps, if she had allowed it, she could have become a Goddess, instead of striving for monstrosity.

The pleasure comes slowly, it is not often one is touched by a Goddess with such reverence, Alana fleetingly thinks it should be the other way around. Has she ever touched Margot with reverence? Her mind is fraying, her thoughts swimming in anger and despair but the pleasure, oh the pleasure. The marble is cold against her spine, and Margot kisses her aching knees as she caresses the pants off of Alana's body. There are kisses, a million little soft things that Alana can't count, that Alana shouldn't be feeling. She is not worth the feeling. But that doesn't stop Margot. And there is pain, even now in the beauty of it, with the moonlight seeping in through the windows and the soft glow of skin, there is pain. Alana is naked now, and Margot stands to remove the robe she walked down in. She is bare underneath, and Alana wants to cry. Margot had known. She had read the paper and she had known.

She is beautiful. Has she ever told Margot she is beautiful? But it doesn't matter now. It isn't the time for that, because Margot's skin is on hers, and as her lips descend to Alana's throat, Alana tenses in anticipation. It's the same spot Alana has bitten, bruised, scarred Margot. She thinks now, prices high and Margot in debt, it's time for payback. But the bite doesn't hurt. The teeth are there, the pressure is soft. Alana moans at the feeling, and thinks herself foolish for ever thinking Margot's thing in her chest would want to cause her pain. Margot has healed much more than Alana ever has. Tears blink into her eyes, but she holds them back. Alana refuses to cry at beauty.

Margot never leaves her, breathing into her ear as she palms Alana's chest. Alana can hear the desire, the sadness, the pleasure in Margot's pants. She bucks on her own against Margot's thigh, and can hear Margot's little moan. If they were different, Alana has no doubt Margot would be whispering sweet nothings into her ear. The moan is more than enough to say the same, and Alana almost begs to be touched. The healing touch of a God. But Margot knows her body well, knows her body in ways Alana doesn't, so she drags her hands slowly across the tight expanse of Alana's abdomen, thumbs the scar on her hip, and Alana almost does cry. Margot sighs into her then, and she realizes crying at beauty is what Margot wants her to do. But she can't, she can't, not when she has cried already at horrors. Not when Margot is too, too good. So Margot moves her hand down further, guides Alana's leg softly to rest on her hip, and moves the hand again to where Alana's need is.

Her other hand has snaked it's way under Alana, on the cold heat of the floor, and Alana's arms wrap around Margot's strong shoulders and they move together. Alana wonders if she's ever felt the skin of Margot's back before, really felt it. She ghosts fingertips on Margot's scars as her pleasure mounts, and feels the stars falling from Margot's eyes against her shoulder. Margot makes her come, and the pleasure of it all, the sadness of it all, and the teardrops trailing their way down her back make the tears come without her permission, and Margot kisses her. Alana thinks maybe she can taste the pleasure in the salt of her tears, because Margot kisses her like it will be their last kiss. Her mind flits ever-so briefly to Mason, because Margot is tasting her through her tears.

Her orgasm subsides, and Alana finds herself being lifted and carried through the mansion to their bedroom. She is stronger than Alana thought, in more ways than Alana thought possible. The sheets are unmade, Margot had been sleeping. How late was it? Margot places her with delicacy on the bed, and her fingers again find their way to Alana's need. And Alana needs, needs more and more and always. Margot enters her like she is trying to memorize Alana from the inside out, as if she hasn't already. She curls her fingers slow, and deep, and Alana grips hard with her fingertips against Margot above her because it is too much, too much, and not enough at all. Her breathing is heavy, and the sound of silk sheets sliding against each other beneath her reminds her of the ocean.

Margot pulls the orgasm out of her so deeply, so completely, Alana didn't know it could ever feel like that. Feel like her whole world stopped existing, and in the moment, there was only Margot. Alana comes to as though she had walked through a dream. Margot's eyes are deep, and carry meanings Alana can't decipher now. She tries to move her hand, to return Margot's God-like pleasures with the best mortal ones she can offer, but Margot stops her hand. She kisses each finger, the palm, Alana's eyelids, then goes to pleasure her again, and Alana doesn't know whether it's the fifth or the eighth time that she finally succumbs until there is no thought in her mind. Hazily, she feels the soft skin of Margot on her back, holding her, protecting her, and she feels whole.

Alana's mind clears just enough before sleep to think how foolish she is for never telling Margot she's in love.


End file.
